


young stalker

by tearrful



Series: tear's adventures in the blackout club [2]
Category: The Blackout Club (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22549261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tearrful/pseuds/tearrful
Summary: gil gets a visit
Series: tear's adventures in the blackout club [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622395





	young stalker

The night is cold. Almost cold enough to see their ragged pants puff out before them, but thankfully not. The adrenaline pumping through their system keeps them hot.

Stalking. They’ve been picking up more on it, to win favor, to win a dog bone, something, anything. They want answers, and those aren’t usually freely given -- and though they hate the work, it has to be done. 

This group they’ve been following has, miraculously, been clean. No vandalism. No assault. Nothing. It’s frustrating. They don’t like to get the other kids in trouble, but… They  _ need _ to get them caught. It’s too risky to go straight for them. With the loss of the club’s perks during these times, they’re more inclined to sit and wait and watch, but sometimes that drags on for too long and they can’t take it anymore. 

_ There. _ Finally. As they cycle amongst the Doors, they spot a kid in the signal room, fidgeting suspiciously, before a Lucid rounds the corner and the kid pounces. They feel nothing, but once they returned into the Door… The concentrated emotions and thoughts packed inside of the light of the Door made them feel nauseous, and it would increase tenfold once they documented this body. There would be so much grief. Big babies. They were only asleep.

The kid lifts the body, disposing it in the corner of the room, before they bolt. They wait with bated breath (is there even breathing inside of the Doors? They can’t recall the sensation at the moment) before they will the Door to let them out and they’re back in their own body, right there in the room. Hands, legs, eyes, thoughts. They’re back. They’re Gil.  _ I’m me. _

There’s an airiness in their head as they sneak over to the body, cringing as they look over it. The shifting face, it watches them now, though the person behind it doesn’t. 

“God,” they mutter, sneering. They hate the eyes. They pull their loaned phone out anyway, quickly snapping a picture before uploading it to whatever hidden network they were provided. Within a few moments, there’s the snap of feedback in their ear, the sound of chords, and then the Dispatcher speaks up. Good. It actually went through. The kids would be alerted at any moment now. It was time to retreat.

And so they do. Back into the system, back looking for whatever scrap they can find. Wherever the kids go, they move to where they used to be, then back into hiding. A long and pain-in-the ass way to go about it, and other times it worked, but… These kids were being cautious, save for that one slip-up. Too cautious. Something is up.

They head to the daycare, cold jolting them away from the feelings of the Door, back into their right mind. They climb to the roof, to see if they can get a better view on the street leading to them as well as the sidewalks below them. Nothing is happening up here, but they can see that the kids are down by the Leap, lit up and alarming the goonies down there. They’re standing almost perfectly still, though. Why are they alerted?

On a hunch, they call out.

“SPEAK-AS-ONE?”

There’s a beat of nothingness, before it feels like thousands of eyes have turned to scrutinize them, and they take in a breath and try not to flounder. They’re being watched.

In a daze, they hop off of the rooftop to start searching the daycare, anticipation refocused. There’s suddenly a desire to please, to make whoever watches proud. They don’t know why. It scares them more than the thought that they’re being watched. The kids had to be sloppy enough to leave something that they could report on, right? Anything?

Frustration overwhelms them. They may not have been up here, yet. There would be nothing here for them, and maybe nothing else at all at this rate. This is bad. This is bad. This is

Fingers, prodding their skull and their eyes. They gasp out at the foreign sensations, though it isn’t an unfamiliar one. Dread settles in the pit of their stomach. They, their Watcher, speaks to them. They close their eyes.

**WE HEAR YOU, CHILD**

They laugh, a nervous sound. Of course They could hear. Of course They were listening. Of course They were here.

“... Hi,” they say shyly, before adding, “I forgot - er,  _ they _ forgot you’re always listening.” They laugh again, anxious and breathy. They feel fingers trace their open eyes, and the sensation causes them to flinch.

**FOCUS, YOUNG STALKER.**

Yes. Right. They had a job to do. They want to talk more, but… now isn’t the time nor place. 

“I know,” they mumble, scared. Before anything else can be said by either of them, they make a beeline to a Door and dive inside.

The feeling of returning into the space behind the Door is much, much different, now that they’re being watched. There’s bated breath, and it feels like the emotions and feelings are directed specifically at them. It hurts, but it also comforts, and they don’t know how to cope with it besides cycling around doors and trying to avoid the fingers and hands reaching out to grab and hold them. There’s temptation, and they know it isn’t theirs, to just relax back and let Them take control.

They pop out at the daycare again, and the lingering hands clutch on their clothes. It’s so much harder to reconnect with their body all of a sudden, and they almost don’t notice the kid charging them.

Their mind snaps back and they manage to quickly throw one of their flash grenades in their direction, before they turn on their heel and run for it. There’s a flash behind them, then another -- they must have thrown one, too -- but they’re already taking a leap of faith down the cliff. Anxiety and exhilaration and adrenaline fire through them, which is probably how they manage to catch themself on the fence down below, not feeling anything. They hop down behind it, chest heaving and eyes darting around as they try to look for anyone else. They’re safe. They’re safe? They need to keep moving. If the caresses of fingers on the hairs of their neck are any indication, there’s still danger. 

On to the fence they go again, bolting away. Distance. They need to resupply and recollect their thoughts. Then they could make a better plan and search in better places, and it would be fi

Something catches their ankle, and they crash into the ground, crying out. No. No, no, no. There’s eyes all over them, hands patting to comfort them, but it doesn’t help. Another kid. They were already down here. They wrestle them for a moment on the ground, but suddenly the pain blocked by their adrenaline-filled heart is running thin and their arms and legs are burning and they can’t find air enough to breathe. They’re shoved down into the ground, and they realize now that they’re crying. A hand traces their cheek, following the path of their tears. It feels so real. But the kid is using both hands to keep them pinned and to bind their wrists together. 

Before they can comprehend it, there’s a pressure at the front of their head and suddenly they’re gone. 


End file.
